


Trajectory

by saltstreets



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Indecision, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Xabi doesn’t think he’s ever been wooed before, tending instead to do his own work. It’s a novel experience. Almost novel enough to change his mind. Almost.





	Trajectory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> Approximately one hundred thousand years ago I promised Ireny I would write Xabi/Thomas for her, and then I promptly pretended I had forgotten about that promise. You can tell this fic was started a while ago because when I initially wrote it, the events herein were actually relevant.
> 
> Anyways, Happy Pissmas and I love you darling <3 <3 <3

 

 

New Year’s has always seemed a bit of a strange holiday for Xabi, for whom the year had begun in August and ended in May for most of his life. New beginnings came as the fields were ripening for the autumn, and he reaped his rewards, whatever they may be, with the new rains of spring. And the harvest had tended to be, suffice it to say, plentiful.

He doesn’t usually take the first of January as any sort of milestone. He’ll go to New Year’s parties and drink and have a good time but when the noise has died down and the lights come back up the occasion usually fails to hold much significance for him.

So Xabi is confused when, sixteen minutes past midnight and sat on the living room sofa squished between a drunk David and a _very_ drunk Manuel at Thomas’ Silvester party, he suddenly is struck by the realisation of just how long he has been here. Bayern was always meant to be a bit of a stop-gap between the heights of his prime and the inevitable slip down the rungs of his career. But he’d signed a new contract and he was still here.

The passage of time is not a theme that traditionally troubles Xabi. This unexpected development unsettles him.

 

 

Maybe it’s because he feels unsettled that he starts trying to beat his musings at their own game. It starts during a conversation with Thomas, which was less significant than it was simply a fact of statistics: Xabi spent much of his time at training, and much of training was spent in conversation with Thomas, as either an active participant or within inescapable earshot of whatever he was saying at the time.

“I have been thinking about retirement,” interjects Xabi in the middle of a rambling tirade about something, and there it is. He’s bordering on smug, to have caught out his own traitorous thoughts about inevitable time that have been mocking him since New Year’s. He can’t _have_ invasive thoughts if he just speaks them aloud as if he’s purposefully reasoned them out. Logic.

“ _Retirement?”_ Thomas repeats, incredulous, and boots the ball that they’re supposed to be practicing with right into the middle of Manuel’s chest.

“Think about it, don’t just punch it!” Manuel yells irritably, chucking the ball back at Thomas. “Do the drill right!”

Thomas rolls his eyes but obediently sets the ball back on the grass. “Hang on a sec,” he says to Xabi, and then attempts to chip the ball over Manuel’s head.

Manuel snags it easily. “Your trajectory is terrible. Next.”

“ _Your_ trajectory is terrible,” Thomas tells him amiably, and steps aside for Xabi to take his kick. “But like I was saying- _retirement?”_

Xabi waves a hand vaguely, scrutinising the goal. “It’s just something I have now to think about. My timing going. Losing pace. I should leave now before I become a liability.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never been quick, everyone knows that. You’re not past it yet. We can use you _here._ ”

He’s always been startlingly good as brushing aside the pretensions of melancholy that Xabi finds it amusing to wallow in. It’s annoying that Xabi doesn’t find it annoying. Being so easily found out is gratifying in certain ways. 

It’s perhaps a little bit needy. But the fact remains that Xabi likes the attention. And Thomas seems to like giving it to him.

Xabi takes a short run up and curves the ball neatly up over Manuel’s head. It’s almost perfect. Manu gets the barest of fingers to it and pokes it over the crossbar.

“ _That’s_ how you chip a keeper,” says Xabi, smugly.

“That’s how you _almost_ chip a keeper,” Manuel corrects. “But yeah. Thomas, take notes.”

“Oh, I am.” Thomas smiles guilelessly. “I’m always taking notes.”

 

 

“Hey, Xabi.” Thomas flicks a pea at him and Xabi looks up.

“Yes?”

“Want to get lunch?”

“We have gotten lunch,” says Xabi. “We’re eating lunch right now.”

Thomas rolls his entire head around exasperatedly. “I meant like on the weekend or something, and not in the _cafeteria._ We’ll go to a restaurant. My treat.”

Xabi shrugs. “Sure. Why?”

“Am I not allowed to take my valued team mates out to lunch if I want?” Thomas has the audacity to look hurt. “I’m just trying to be generous.”

“Why does this feel like a trick?”

“Don’t be so suspicious.” Thomas pats Xabi on the shoulder. “So maybe it's a trick. Maybe the other card is up my sleeve but there’s nothing you can do about that, so just accept that what you’re going to see. And come to lunch with me.”

There’s not much Xabi can do with that except agree.

 

 

They end up at an Italian restaurant Thomas knows- he’s clearly been there before since they’re taken straight away by a smiling waitress to a relatively private table at the back, tucked behind some leafy potted plants strung with small lights.

“I won’t even try to pick the wine, you do it.” Thomas pushes the wine list towards Xabi. “It’s all grapes to me. Now. Explain to me why you think you’re an old wash-up.”

“I do not think I’m an old-” Xabi starts to protest and then narrows his eyes. “Is this about my retirement?”

“Of course not,” Thomas says with the innocent tones of a consummate liar. “This is about choosing a comfortable elderly care home for you when the time comes.”

“Why are you worried about this?” Xabi says, deciding to take a direct approach. A waiter sidles past and he orders a red wine at random. Well, almost at random. At random from the three wines from the list that he deemed appropriate. Two of which weren’t perfect.

“Why is it so hard to believe that I'm just invested in my friends’ lives?” Thomas shoots back. “Would you rather I say my motives are purely pragmatic, since I believe you’re an asset to the team and therefore important to winning trophies? Et cetera et cetera?”

“You keep being very flattering,” Xabi presses, not quite certain where he’s going with this.

“Well,” says Thomas, “it’s not polite to point out the flaws of someone you’re dining with. And my mother raised me _very_ well.” He raises an eyebrow, and flicks open the menu to study it, leaving Xabi feeling a bit like he’s missed out on a whole half of a conversation that they still haven’t had.

Thomas doesn’t try to bring the subject up again during the meal, opting instead to talk about his horses, his cousin’s new dog, a new movie, his horses, and the horrible shoes Arjen had been failing to subtly try out at training the previous day. When the bill comes, Thomas pays it with a joke about how it’s Xabi’s reward for being talked at, and doesn’t let Xabi argue about it.

 

 

The little things like that start piling up. Thomas takes Xabi as a stretching partner. Thomas picks up Xabi’s dropped gloves. Thomas offers his extra shampoo when Xabi forgets his own. (Xabi refuses the last one with horror; whatever Thomas does to his hair is _definitely_ not sufficient for Xabi’s routine. That gets him laughed at by the entire team for a week at least.)

Xabi thinks –he _knows-_ that Thomas has been layering meaning behind their every interaction for a while now. Not even particularly subtly, but then again he wouldn’t expect Thomas to bother with enigma. Thomas is fairly straightforward with what he wants. It had alarmed Xabi at first. Put him on the defensive. But now he thinks he likes it.

 

 

Xabi doesn’t think he’s ever been _wooed_ before, tending instead to do his own work. It’s a novel experience. Almost novel enough to change his mind. He actually considers it one night, turning his options over in his mind. In the end, he winds up back where he started and goes to sleep before waking up the next morning and deciding that if anybody is capable of having his cake and eating it too, then it’s him, Xabi Alonso.

 

 

He doesn’t think it over any more than that, and tells Thomas.

Thomas is predictably annoyed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re _positive?_ ” Thomas sounds almost plaintive.

“Yes, Thomas.” Xabi gives him a look. “I told Ancelotti already.” He has not, as a matter of fact, told Ancelotti. But it’s more like taking a different temporal perspective than a lie, since Ancelotti will know soon enough.

“But you could always change your mind. You told me you wanted to win the Champions League again. What if we don’t? What if we’re knocked out in the round of sixteen?”

Xabi’s Look deepens. “In the round of sixteen. Against Arsenal.”

“Okay, what if we’re knocked out in the quarter-finals?”

“No. I will make a Tweet about it, then it’s unchangeable.”

“ _Oh_ , harsh.” Thomas clutches at his chest dramatically. “That’s really a point of no return.”

That makes Xabi laugh, and he is suddenly reminded that he is genuinely quite fond of Thomas. “Alright,” he says, feeling warm, “ _if_ Arsenal manages the comeback of the century and sends us out, I will not Tweet about anything and stay on another year.”

Thomas drops his agonised act. “Comeback of the century, huh? And coming from you that is high praise indeed. Wasn’t there some game, some game you played, I forget, you’ve only mentioned it once or twice or a hundred times-”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Xabi warns, dignified. “I’ve earned to right to boast about my accomplishments.”

“Sure, sure,” Thomas agrees. “Now let’s keep those accomplishments coming, yeah?”

 

 

They don’t go out in the round of sixteen to Arsenal. They go out in the quarters to Madrid.

Xabi is upset, and he’s almost surprised about it. There’s a miserable little stone lodged in between his second and third ribs, scraping at him bitterly whenever he moves, so he sits on the pitch instead, heels digging into the grass, trying to block out the roar of sound.

Of course losing is never pleasant. And Xabi is infinitely professional: he prides himself upon it. He has never put less than everything he has into the teams he has played for. But he had thought that he was ready for the end. He had spent much of the past season saying as much to Thomas, despite the man’s efforts to get him to admit otherwise. He had half-expected a sense of relief to feel it was over.

 

 

Losing a match is always a door closing, and this one has been slammed shut. Xabi wonders if this is what it takes to change his mind, but when he wakes up the next morning no transformation, no miracle of faith has occurred and he’s still retiring at the end of the season, no matter how much he thinks about the Champion’s League trophy or the cheering fans or Thomas running down the length of the pitch with his arms spread wide to grab Xabi shoulders and shake him in a swirl of red and white confetti.

Xabi feels slightly disappointed in himself. Relief still remains elusive.

 

 

He throws a small party at the end of the season, partially to celebrate, partially to mourn, mostly in his own honour. He makes a toast to the team, crouched in terms which leave no uncertainty as to his future plans, and then ends up getting drunk anyways, sitting on the low sofa in the little winter garden and listening to a couple of his team mates enthusiastically argue over a game of Fifa from the living room.

Thomas finds him within ten minutes and Xabi isn’t a bit surprised.

“Still haven’t changed your mind?” says Thomas without preamble, and Xabi feels a spark of anticipation for whatever’s going to happen next, because Thomas is still enough of an unknown quantity to upset Xabi’s balance, no matter how well he knows himself.

“Still haven’t changed my mind,” he tells Thomas, and waits.

“No more trophies?” Thomas prods, but he says it like half a joke and Xabi knows he’s being made fun of.

“No more trophies.”

Thomas is quiet for a minute and Xabi glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His brow is furrowed like he’s thinking, maybe of a way of coaxing Xabi back despite all signs pointing to no. Xabi finds he’s rather looking forward to it. He doesn’t think he’ll actually let himself be coaxed but the process is bound to be enjoyable. It’s practically Thomas’s speciality, coaxing things that don’t want to be redirected into going where he wants them.

“Hey Xabi?” Thomas asks, and Xabi is practically on tenterhooks.

“Yes?”

“How did you feel when you won it?”

Xabi doesn’t need to ask for clarification and just smirks at him, unable to resist boasting. “The first time or the second time?”

Thomas rolls his eyes and punches him in the shoulder. “Show-off.”

“You did ask.”

“Okay, the time you _actually played,_ then.”

It’s barely a dig. Even if Thomas had been trying to tease it wouldn’t have worked because Xabi only gets a far-away look in his eyes, and matching smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Istanbul.”

“Yes, I know where it was.” Thomas punches him again. “And you claim you’re not sentimental. Don’t just say the name of the city and expect it to mean the same thing to me. I want _details,_ Xabi. When we won the Champions League it was fucking amazing. What was it like for you?”

Xabi opens his mouth, and closes it again. He thinks about the cool spring air against his face and the beating of the stadium, a massive open heart in the middle of the city in the middle of the world, the crossroads city drawing eyes and dreams from across the globe. He thinks about looking up just before the whistle for the second half, and not seeing any stars in the night sky. The floodlights trained on the pitch blocking out any other light. That stadium had been the only thing in the world lit up like that. That stadium had been the only thing in the world that mattered.

Thomas is looking at him expectantly. _Fucking amazing,_ Xabi thinks, and then he thinks-

When he kisses Thomas, he presses his hand flat against Thomas’ chest, and can feel him breathe in suddenly in surprise, his heart beating behind his skinny ribs. Thomas’ curls brush against Xabi’s forehead as Xabi pushes him back, a single deep kiss.

Xabi pulls back with a near-silent sigh. “ _That’s_ what it felt like.”

Thomas’ eyebrows are arched high, a slow grin spreading across his face. “That’s what winning the Champions League was to you?”

“Very much so.” Warmth and shock and need. Heart rates. Skin. Feeling- something. Relief?

“Over really quickly, was it?”

Xabi doesn’t have time to come up with an appropriately sarcastic reply before Thomas is pushing forward, mouths and hands and Xabi feels the thrumming of someone’s heart –he can’t sort out whose it is- and he can only let Thomas flood over him. His teeth are sharp against Xabi’s bottom lip. His fingers are deft around the buttons of Xabi’s shirt and Xabi thinks distantly, _space, it’s all about the space;_ there is none between them.

The same heartbeat is clattering against Xabi’s chest. He thinks it might be his own.

He reaches up and takes Thomas’ jaw between his hands, kissing him with force this time, kissing him the same way he strikes a ball when he knows where he wants to put it. And Thomas has always been able to get on the end of Xabi’s crosses.

“Fucking amazing,” Thomas laughs against Xabi’s lips, their noses squishing together. “ _Fucking amazing.”_

 


End file.
